|Tears shed behind closed doors
Author: missvampfreak95 PM
This is my true story about my childhood.This story is about abuse, drug use and other bad influences.This story is under fiction but its a non-fiction story.The names in this story have been changed, so have the locations.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Tragedy - Chapters: 4 - Words: 2,897 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 5 - Updated: 01-02-12 - Published: 01-05-11 - id: 2879643
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Tears shed behind closed doors
This is my story, the story that changed and ruined my short life. Some of the names have been changed for their protection but mine remains the same. My last name however shall not be given out, instead it shall be changed.
My name is Marissa and guess what? My life really really sucks. When I was a child, around the age of 6 or 7, my life took a drastic turn. My mother was having an affair with a man who I didn't know was so evil until now. My father was too. With a women who abused her own children and soon abused me.
Abuse is not easy to deal with…take it from someone who knows. My whole childhood has been spent with pain and agony. Now I'm older, 17 in fact and it still isn't getting any better. Happiness is something that I'm not very familiar with. The others just don't understand what's wrong with me anymore. I can hide behind this smile, but only for so long.
At age 6 my mother and father were not getting along. They continued to fight and yell at each other. I always hid my brother from such nonsense. If I had not done so he wouldn't have a chance at a long and peaceful life. I have given that up so my brother could live the life that we should both have. I do not regret doing this for my brother. If I can make so much as one more person happy, I will feel as if my life has completed its mission. My parents never had laid a hand on us for punishment until now. My father did so once, but immediately stopped after seeing the hurt in my small green eyes. My mother however continued this; she never stopped to see the redness on my flawless porcelain white skin. Once you hit a young child on the face you have ruined their identity in this world.
For some bizarre reason I was always the one who got hit by my mother, she did so in secret. She would never hit me in public, whenever there was company over she wouldn't do so much as yell at me. She calmly and gently sent me to my room. When they were gone that's when I suffered under the wrath of my mom's hand and feet. I would lie in my bed quietly crying myself to sleep, if I cried loud she would hit me again until I was silent. My brother always looked the other way when I was hit, because I told him to. My dad would work late nights so I never saw him until the morning. When I woke up I would discover bruises and cuts, my mom noticed to so she bought me turtle-neck shirts or clothing that would cover it up. I knew I was hiding this from my dad.
On my 7th birthday my mother moved out of our beautiful house, as she loaded up her car, I headed up the road to say goodbye to the graceful field of horses. I had named one of the reddish brown ones gingersnap; she always came to me whenever I showed her the delicious red apple in my hand. I loved it when her big hairy lips ticked my palm. That was the source of my true happiness. My dad had decided to keep the house, and my mom found a apartment called evergreen apartments, its located in Vancouver, Washington. My parents had worked out a schedule for visiting. We would stay with our mom during the week days and on weekends go to our dad's. I had hated this arrangement because I was very close to my father, my mother was just someone who was a main part in my family, my father was my world he showed me the stars and the path between right and wrong. He was my role model.
My parents never talked when they dropped us off, they remained silent for the first week after that everything changed.
Life at my mom's was definitely harder than at my dad's.
My dad is a carpenter; he paints and does house repairs for a living. He can be very crafty with his hands sometimes. He always used to have jobs near Mt. St. Helens, so he would pick me up colorful rocks, that's how I started my rock collection. I've kept this collection up for about 8 years. I loved when I would come home to smelling the primer smell on his clothes when I walked into the doorway and as soon as I came into the living room I would see him sitting on the couch with paint stained clothes watching The Lakers basketball game. We may live in Washington but he grew up in California so he's a total California guy. And I guess I'm a Cali girl too. I was born in Brea and lived there for about a year and a half in one of my grandmother's rental houses. After that we moved to Washington and a year later my brother was born.